She thought, shook her head.
“He was a secretive man-if we’ve learned anything about him, it’s that. He liked to hide things.” He was already moving toward the door.
Behind him, chairs scraped. His hand on the doorknob, he turned back to see all three ladies on their feet.
Letitia’s eyes were wide. “You think there’s a secret passage leading to the study?”
He smiled intently. “I wouldn’t be the least surprised.”
They trooped into the study and started their search. Agnes, unable to easily bend or stretch, excused herself and retired, leaving the three of them tapping panels and poking at the ornately carved mantelpiece and the thick, lushly carved picture rail.
Letitia was working her way along one wall, pressing every knob in the intricately figured rail that ran along the top of the half paneling, when a knock fell on the front door. They all stopped searching, waited, listening to the low murmur of voices in the hall.
A second later the door opened to reveal Mellon. He announced, “A Mr. Dalziel has called, my lady. I’ve shown him into the drawing room.”
Letitia straightened. “Please show him in here, Mellon.”
Mellon looked disapproving, but retreated, restricting himself to a glance at the spot where his master’s body had lain.
Two heartbeats later, Dalziel walked in. He turned and rather pointedly shut the door in Mellon’s face.
Holding up one finger to enjoin their silence, Dalziel waited for half a minute, his hand on the doorknob, then he opened the door again.
They couldn’t see past his shoulders, but heard him utter two words. “Leave. Now.”
His tone suggested that whoever was there-presumably Mellon-risked fatal injury if he didn’t immediately comply.
He must have left-at speed-because Dalziel smoothly shut the door and turned back into the room.
It wasn’t good news making Dalziel so edgy; leaving the wall, Letitia moved to the center of the room, stopped and waited for him to join her.
Which he did, halting directly before her.
She was conscious of Christian drawing nearer, stopping by her shoulder. She searched Dalziel’s uninformative face. “What is it? Justin?”
Dalziel answered with a sharp shake of his head. “He’s safely hidden where no one will think, or dare, to look for him.” He held her gaze. “I’ve heard from Hexham.” His voice low, he went on, “There’s only one family called Randall in the area, or was-a farmer who had a decent spread outside the town. He and his wife are both dead, but he was warm enough to spare his only son from the farm when the boy was awarded a governors’ scholarship to Hexham Grammar School. There, the lad did well enough, apparently, but the school lost track of him after he left.”
Letitia held his dark gaze; she knew what he was telling her, but she couldn’t-simply could not-take it in. After a blank moment, she said, “You’re saying…” Then she shook her head, briskly dismissing the impossible. “That couldn’t have been Randall. I couldn’t have been married to a farmer’s son.”
Dalziel’s lips compressed, then he murmured, “George Martin Randall. According to the school and parish records he would have turned thirty-four in April this year.”
She stared, jaw slackening. “Good God!” Her voice was weak; she literally felt the blood drain from her face.
“Sit down.” Christian grasped her arm and eased her back and down into the chair he’d set behind her.
Once she was seated, still stunned and shocked, he glanced at Dalziel. “That explains a few things.”
“Indeed.” Dalziel nodded curtly. “It also poses a host of new questions.”
“But…how could…?” Letitia gestured at nothing in particular, but they knew what she meant.
“Precisely.” Dalziel glanced around the study-at the polished wood, the heavy desk, the books and curios on the shelves, the elegant chairs. “The ‘how coulds’ are endless. How could a farmer’s son have achieved all this? More, although he was only thirty-four, he’d been wealthy enough, for long enough, to have simply become accepted by the ton.”
“Wealthy enough to rescue the Vaux from gargantuan debts,” Letitia said. “And so marry me-and through me become connected with and have the entrée to the highest levels of society.”
Dalziel blinked.
Christian realized he hadn’t known about the debts that had led to Letitia marrying Randall. Letitia, Justin, and their father had kept that secret well.
It was on the tip of Dalziel’s tongue to ask-to confirm and inquire about the forced marriage-but then he glanced at Christian, his look plainly saying, Later?
Christian nodded.
Somewhat to his relief, a frown replaced Letitia’s stunned expression.
“But why?” She looked up at Dalziel, then swiveled to look at him. “Why, why, why? It makes no sense.”
After a moment, Dalziel said, “Yes it does. Just think-a farmer’s son rises to live as one with the highest in the land.” When they looked at him, he continued, “That has to be a dream, a fantasy many farmers, laborers, and the like indulge in. Randall didn’t just fantasize, he made it happen. Found ways to make it happen.”
“I don’t understand.”
They all turned to Hermione. She was leaning against the desk, arms folded, a frown identical to the one on Letitia’s face darkening hers.
“Why would he want to become one of us? Why not just be a very rich farmer?”
Dalziel answered. “Status. It’s something we take for granted, that we rarely if ever think of. We’re born to it-we assume its mantle as our norm. But although we’re barely aware of it, others are. They envy us what we barely notice-all the privileges we enjoy by right of birth.” He paused, then went on, “While there are many who-out of our hearing-rail against our privilege, the truly clever…they try to join us.”
Letitia hauled in a huge breath, let it out with, “In which endeavor Randall succeeded excellently well.”
She was a part of his success.
She looked up, met Christian’s, then Dalziel’s, eyes. “That fits. Very well. It explains a lot of his attitudes that I never understood.”
Dalziel nodded. “Very likely, but the most pertinent point for our investigation is that having succeeded so excellently well, Randall kept his success a secret. A very, indeed amazingly, closely kept secret. Who knew of his background? So far, we’ve found no one. No one even suspected. One might have thought that, having succeeded, he might crow-at least to close friends. But he didn’t have any-something that now makes sense. Yet nothing we’ve uncovered suggests even secret gloating. He might have inwardly preened, but he didn’t celebrate his success.”
“He wasn’t finished.” Letitia met Dalziel’s dark eyes, then looked at Christian. “He was set on taking Nunchance from Justin. And he wanted children.” Her lips curved cynically. “Unfortunately for him, he forgot to specify that as part of our agreement. I believe he thought it simply followed as a natural outcome of my duties in the marriage bed, and strangely-perhaps because he was in fact a farmer’s son-he never realized that I might have some way of preventing that.”
The depth of her aversion for Randall showed in her eyes, then she turned back to Dalziel.
Who had started to pace. “Even so, his secrecy might well have been the reason behind his murder. His continuing plans, which made maintaining that secrecy even more important, only add weight to the thesis.”
Letitia frowned. “I can understand him murdering someone else to preserve his secret, but how could such a secret have killed him?”
Dalziel halted. “I don’t know, but such secrets are always dangerous.” He frowned, then glanced at the paneling, as if only then registering what they’d been doing when he’d entered. “What were you searching for?”